Half-formed Reflections (Open)

Welcome to the Warder Yards. This is the place for Warder and Trainee roleplays. Informal non-training interactions take place here, as well as some extended role plays.
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Welcome to the Warder Yards. This is the place for Warder and Trainee roleplays. Informal non-training interactions take place here, as well as some extended role plays. Yet these events may take place at any area of the Tower, and sometimes outside of it, since the images to the left merely serves as inspiration towards the sceneries of your stories. Channelers are always welcome, and might even find his or her bondmate through the threads that are displayed below.
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"Lord of Chaos"
Posts: 469
Joined: May 25th, 2015, 9:01 pm
PC: Malcym Ashe

Half-formed Reflections (Open)

Post by Jack » January 1st, 2022, 7:58 am

Sojin Majere Gaidin Sojin Majere stared down at the sparring arena of the Warder Yards, his sapphire eyes watching as young men and women matched off in different pairs. Some fought one-to-one, whether with practice weapons or unarmed; others fought in pairs or two-to-one.

The young-looking silver-haired man held a pipe clenched between his teeth, smoking tabac grown from some small village in the north of Ghealdan. It had become a habit picked up over the last seven years, much to his own detriment. He had attempted to stop every so often but found it nigh-impossible.

Most trainees were supervised by Gaidin, men and women dressed in different garbs standing still but as if coiled springs waiting to launch into action. The trainees were dressed in different shades of gray, whether to mark them as drin or Ji.

Sojin Majere could recall bits of his own time in those yards, sparring with other trainees when he had been a Ji. Even as a drin, he had been more skilled with a sword than others, and arrogant enough to believe himself better than others.

Or foolish. Of course, an iron-willed Gaidin with a face half-burnt and raspy voice never ceased to remind him where he truly stood. Sojin could still recall every welt, every bruise, and every sore muscle from those ego-deflating lessons.

There had been other lessons, of course, but those memories stood clear. Other memories floated just beyond reach or were faded as if swept up in a fog in his mind.

The young-looking silver-haired man drew no more looks than any other visitor. A drin’far’ji raised an eyebrow or two, questioning why a man dressed up in browns and greys like some Aiel wore a slender sword at his back. He looked for all the world like a Warder, though, minus the fancloak that would blend him in with most of his surroundings. He had the lethal grace, even standing still, and the sharp glance to ward off any questions.

The last time he had been in this Tower, walked the Yards, his face had been much older, his silver hair beginning to turn grey with age. He had been approaching his late 40s, and the arrogance of his youth tempered by being a Warder, among other things.

His mind wandered briefly, pulling from the fogged memories. He remembered being astride a black mare of Shineran stock, in front of 150 other mounted men, overlooking a mass of brigands. Or had it been some renegade band of Aiel this side of the spine?

The memory was sharp, except for the enemy, somewhere backward in time, after he had left the Grey Tower the first time. After he had left being bonded to powerful Green Sitter, Saphire en’Damier. That had been a passionate bond, one forged from lust, secrecy and love so stormy it could have overwhelmed even a Sea Folk raker.

The ending had been as tragic, best forgotten ... some memories never faded. All he could remember was returning to a military organization he had belonged to before signing the Warder rolls, to take command of a cavalry unit he would lead for nearly the better part of a decade.

Sojin raised his sword, a single-edged sabre that curved slightly. It was a weapon meant for fighting from horseback, equally suited to thrusting or slashing. The enemy was advancing quickly, 1,000 paces. “Hold!” he shouted. 800 paces. Again, he held 700 paces ... 500 paces ...

400 paces ... “Loose!” He shouted ... and the 200 bowmen behind his ranks loosed their only volley of arrows, driving into the enemy ranks ... many fell, and there was a but a momentary hesitation.

It was all Sojin Majere and his horse needed ...

”Los caba'drin!” he shouted. Forward calvary. The calvary group charged forward, in a trident formation, 50 men to either side and Sojin leading another 50 down the center ...

He shook his head as some cantankerous older Warder shouted at two young trainees below. He shook his head and sighed. How many times had he barked orders to trainees? How many times had he been on the receiving end?

Again, fragments. In another life, he could be down there, barking those orders. But in another life, his silver hair would have become gray with age, perhaps bound to one channeler or another.

“In another life, I’d probably be happy or still irritating every flaming Warder officer under the sun,” he muttered around the pipe stem. He removed the pipe from his mouth, blowing a few haphazard smoke rings.

He shook his head as he watched the two trainees being shouted at going at sword forms again. Light, but they would need more work before they could advance to becoming Ji. Granted, he had been better with a blade than anyone else upon coming to the Tower Yards so many years ago, but he had also grown up in Tar Valon, training under his mother’s family’s armsmaster, and spent four years as a cavalryman.

“Light, but a half-trained Murandian retainer could skewer the pair with a pitchfork ...” he muttered, frowning. “Not my place, though.”

He felt rather than heard footfalls, an instinct honed over a lifetime as a once-Warder and soldier. His body tensed ever so slightly ... but otherwise he didn’t reach for his sword. Anyone wishing harm on him in this place was likely gone, dead, or simply forgotten.

“A few more days and I’m gone,” he muttered, returning the pipe to his mouth. Both hands were free ... “A few more days and I’ll be on the road, or hopefully back in the flaming Threefold Land.”

He winced slightly as the two trainees continued their forms. "Light, but don't they know how to train bloody drin anymore?" he growled, perhaps to the person nearby, perhaps to himself.
Jerid Walker Asha'man
"We all suffer. It's how we move past it that defines us."

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